Catt leaned over the bar, her brow furrowing. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she said, “but is there a reason you’re pouring beer all over the floor?”
Caramon started, glancing down at his feet. He’d forgotten, in his distraction, to close the spigot on the keg, and nut-brown ale was gurgling out, forming a pool around his boots. Tika snorted in disgust as he fumbled to close the tap. In the moment he was turned away from the bar, Kronn grabbed one of the full tankards.
“Wait!” Caramon said. “That’s for-”
Kronn downed half the tankard’s contents in one deep draught. “Good stuff,” he remarked, wiping foam from his lips. “Plenty of hops-I like that. Brew it yourself?”
“Thanks. Yes. I-” Caramon shook his head vigorously. “Kendermore?”
Catt turned to her brother. “Why does he keep saying that?”
Tika strolled over, her hands on her hips. “Now see here,” she said. “Kendermore’s clear on the other side of Ansalon.”
A smile lit Kronn’s face as he came near. “You must be Tika,” he said.
Caramon looked around quickly, making sure there were no heavy, blunt objects his wife could reach.
“And you must be going,” Tika snapped back testily, “unless you have a damned good reason why my husband should cross an entire continent at his age.”
“Oh, there’s a good reason,” Kronn declared. “We need him to help us drive off an army of ogres.”
“An army of-” Tika repeated, her eyes widening.
“Plus there’s the dragon,” Catt added.
“Dragon?” Tika echoed.
“Her name’s Malystryx,” Kronn said, his face grave. “She’s been causing all sorts of problems, but she didn’t bother us, so we let her be. Then, last month-” He shut his eyes, his face pinched with pain. “She destroyed a village-Woodsedge was its name. Burned it to the ground. And she… she killed our father.”
“Kronin?” Caramon asked, his face ashen. “Kronin Thistleknot’s dead?”
Kronn nodded, then bowed his head, his cheek braids drooping. Catt stepped forward to continue the story. “Our sister, Paxina-she’s been in charge of Kendermore for about ten years now-sent us here,” she said. “We brought one of Father’s shoes to put in the Tomb of Last Heroes. I hope you don’t mind. And since we were going to be in Solace anyway, Pax asked us to bring back someone who knew a thing or two about dragon-slaying.” She looked up at Caramon, beaming. “Naturally, we thought of you.”
Caramon and Tika exchanged glances.
“I’m sorry,” the big man said, turning back to the kender. “I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t know anything about slaying dragons. I’ve never even fought one, not really.”
Kronn’s brows knitted. “But that’s not what the legends say.”
“Which legend is that?” Tika asked acidly. “The one where Tanis shot the green dragon out of the sky with his bow, and Caramon cut off its head when it hit the ground? Or the one where the two of them killed and skinned a blue and snuck into Neraka wearing its hide?”
Caramon chuckled. Kronn, however, was serious. “Both of them,” he said. “I always wondered, how did you think of that thing with the skin? That’s pretty smart. How’d you keep the other dragons from smelling you, though?”
“They didn’t-that is, we didn’t… oh, blast.” Caramon put a hand to his forehead. “Look, there are all sorts of stories about us. Bards started making them up before the War of the Lance was even over, and they’ve had another thirty years to practice. If they were all true, Tanis and I would have killed fifty dragons by ourselves.”
“Not to mention the story about Sturm and Kitiara sailing to the moon,” Tika added. “Or all the tales about them fighting dragons and draconians years before the War started.”
“We even had one idiot come in last year claiming Raistlin once had passed as a woman in disguise!” called Clemen. “The big guy showed him the quick way down from this tree.”
“Anyway, I’m afraid the stories you’ve heard are like those,” Caramon finished sympathetically. “The truth is, I’ve never killed a dragon in my life. And I’m no youngster, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Kronn’s face fell. “You sure look big and strong to me.”
Tika stepped up to the kender, glaring. “Get this straight, Mr. Thistlebulb,” she snapped.
“Thistleknot.”
“Whatever. My husband has done a lot of boneheaded things in his life, but dragon-slaying isn’t one of them- to say nothing of thwarting ogre armies. And there’s no way I’m going to let him start up again. Listen to him.” She waved her hand at Caramon. “He’s not the man he used be, you know. He’s old, fat, and slow-and he never was very bright. I doubt he could even kill a hobgoblin these days.”
“Thanks, Tika,” Caramon muttered.
“Oh dear,” Kronn said resignedly. He glanced at Catt, who shared his crestfallen expression. “But we’ve got to bring some hero to help us.”
“I will go.”
Astonished eyes turned toward the stool beside the fire. Riverwind rose from his seat and came forward, leaving Clemen, Borlos, and Osler to gape, wide-eyed, at his back. “I will go with you,” he said to the kender.
“Father!” Moonsong exclaimed as she and Brightdawn hurried after him.
Caramon stared at the Plainsman, shocked. “You’re not serious.”
“I will go with them,” Riverwind repeated.
“You can’t defeat a dragon all by yourself, Father,” Brightdawn argued. “It’s impossible!”
“Impossible?” Riverwind asked. “Like a poor, heretic shepherd wooing a princess?” He looked at Caramon. “Like the group of us bringing back the gods? Like stopping Chaos from destroying the world?”
Caramon shook his head, scowling. He started to say something, caught Riverwind’s fierce look, and bit his tongue. Brightdawn and Moonsong stared at their father, their faces lined with worry.
“For the love of Reorx, man!” called Borlos, rising from his place beside the fire. “They’re just kender.”
Riverwind glared at Borlos even more fiercely, and Borlos sank back into his chair and looked at the floor. The Plainsman turned back to Kronn and Catt. Solemnly, he offered them his hand.
“I am Riverwind of Que-Shu,” he said. “I don’t know much about dragons either, but I have love and admiration in my heart for the kender. I will go with you and do the best I can.”
The trees of Solace blazed red with the rising sun. Birdsong filled the air, and squirrels chased each other across the inn’s steep roof. Caramon and Riverwind stood on the balcony outside the tavern, smelling the tempting aroma of cooking fires that drifted on the wind. They cupped mugs of hot tarbean tea in their hands, taking occasional sips to keep the morning’s chill at bay.
“A good day for traveling,” Riverwind noted.
Caramon grunted, took another sip of his tea, and set it down on the balcony’s dew-dappled railing.
Neither man had slept; neither man had wanted to. Soon after Riverwind declared his desire to help the kender, Clemen, Borlos, and Osler had slipped away and the rest had gone upstairs to bed-first Moonsong and Brightdawn, then Kronn and Catt. Last of all Tika had kissed her husband good night, embraced Riverwind with tears in her eyes, and left them alone. The Plainsman had helped Caramon drag a straw pallet into the tavern and lay the drunken tinker out on it. After that, the two old men, who had been friends for more than thirty years, had sat together the whole night through.
“Kendermore,” Caramon muttered.
Riverwind glanced at him, then chuckled, gazing at the vallenwoods’ waving branches. “I know what I’m doing, Caramon.”
“Do you?” Caramon persisted. “Riverwind, you’re sixty-five years old, and you want to pick up and travel across Ansalon to fight a dragon at the behest of two kender you’ve never even met before tonight.” He scowled. “If that makes so much sense to you, could you please explain it to me?”
“They are the children of brave Kronin,” said the Plainsman.
Caramon grunted.
“I owe Tasslehoff as much,” Riverwind added.
Caramon snorted, throwing up his hands.
“You know why I must do this,” Riverwind said.
“You’ll be lucky to survive the trip, let alone kill this Malystryx or defeat an entire army of ogres.”
